


Reforging the Family

by Aoibheall



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothers, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3372509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoibheall/pseuds/Aoibheall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to become whole again, the family must gather its shattered pieces and journey through the fire once more. A series of one-shots set after Bruce's supposed death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Brother Within

Damian’s exit of the dining room is accompanied by the shatter and splash of a full ceramic cereal bowl that had been his breakfast and the grating crash of the heavy mahogany chair against the floor. That’s the third time this week that a simple meal has ended in broken dishes and smothering silence.

And if Dick can’t contain the weary sigh that slips past his lips, he thinks he’s entitled. 

Alfred enters predictably through the swinging kitchen door, towel and broom in hand. He makes no comment, but there is a tightness to his lips that gives Dick the urge to squirm like a child caught at some wrongdoing. He scrubs a hand over his mouth to halt the words he feels obligated to utter in his brother’s defense.

He knows Damian’s behavior is exceptionally awful. 

He just isn’t sure how to properly discipline a child who lost his father a bare month ago. 

Both Alfred and the cereal disaster are gone now, leaving Dick alone once more with the impossible burden of his thoughts. The four scant weeks since Bruce’s death have been filled with nothing but silence and little-concealed tension. There are four people in this house, but it doesn’t feel lived in, not anymore. 

The manor’s inhabitants are scattered amongst their own domains. 

Damian is no doubt entombed within the bowels of the cave, surrounded by his dead father’s legacy and numerous sharp objects, which can be thrown at anyone who dares invade his space. Bruce’s death seems to have cancelled out any progress towards emotional normality Damian may have made, and the nine-year-old is as prickly—and violent—as ever. 

Tim hasn’t bothered to come out of his room since dinner yesterday, and he only picked at that. Dick is worried, and not without cause. The teen rarely speaks, and in the past few weeks seems to have dropped several pounds he can’t afford to lose. Tim’s mind is a complicated place and, Dick thinks, not a completely healthy one right now. 

Alfred is in the kitchen once more. An inviting aroma permeates Dick’s consciousness, and he realizes that the butler has left him a fresh cup of coffee without him noticing. Cupping his icy hands—they are always cold now—around the mug, Dick is brought nearly to tears in gratitude for the old man’s presence in their lives. Sometimes he feels that that unfaltering British stoicism is the only thing holding him up—well, that and Alfred’s blueberry scones.

And Dick—Dick doesn’t seem to know where he belongs anymore. Every single room in this enormous, extravagant house feels wrong now. There is no respite from his damned inheritance, no peace to be found in it.

God, Bruce, he thinks with a humorless huff of laughter, for all that you were an uncommunicative, sullen bastard, for all the multitudes of children you left strewn in your wake, this house is empty without you. 

His face has found its now familiar resting place in his hands when he hears the intentional scuff of heavy boots behind him.   
“I take it the demon isn’t a fan of Cocoa Puffs.” 

Dick doesn’t lift his head, but snorts derisively.

“It would seem not,” he replies in lieu of a greeting. Jason has never been one for niceties. “I should’ve bought Lucky Charms.”  
Jason’s bark of laughter is not entirely unpleasant. With his usual disregard for invitation or welcome, Jason takes a seat two chairs down from Dick, slouching negligently against the armrest. 

Dick abandons the shelter of his hands to scrutinize his wayward brother. Jason wears civvies, tattered jeans, a plain black tee, and a well-used leather jacket. His expression is—well, not pleasant—but not angry or suggestive of an imminent fit of rage and daddy issues.   
“How’d you get past the sensors I put on the widows?”

Jason snorts. “Contrary to common belief, I do actually know how to use a door, golden boy.” He draws one ankle to rest casually on the opposite knee, the picture of ease. 

Dick’s eyebrows shoot up. “You got past Alfred? Even better. I’m impressed.”

“What can I say, I’m an impressive guy,” Jason shrugs. “But no, idiot wonder, I rang the doorbell.”

“Oh,” Dick says sheepishly. He rubs gritty eyes. “Sorry. Not quite at the top of my game lately.”

Jason’s eyes are on him, a slight crease between his brows. “Yeah, I’d guess a severe lack of sleep isn’t conducive to stellar detective work.” This is followed by a pointed look.

Dick almost laughs again. It seems both Jason and Alfred want to reduce him to the age of five today. 

“I’m a big boy, Jason, I think I can handle it.”

There’s suddenly a mountain of brother inches away from him. A calloused fingertip skims the deep purple under his eyes, the half-healed cut along his jaw where one of Damian’s temper tantrums got a little too close.

“No, Dickie, you can’t. And you shouldn’t have to, not alone,” Jason falters, continues hesitantly, “Look, I don’t know how to—Alfred…he called, and I—“

Dick blinks, and finds suddenly that he is unspeakably angry.

“Oh, Alfred called. Okay.”

He stands abruptly, nearly sending his chair crashing to the floor Damian-style. 

“Where the fuck do you come in, huh? Since when are you a damn Hallmark card?” He gestures wildly, unsure of where this has come from, and unable to stop. 

“I reached out to you, Jay, so many times. Me and Bruce and Tim—poor Tim who worships the fucking ground you walk on, who you almost murdered—and you couldn’t get over your damn grievances and let us help you! We wanted to help you, couldn’t you see that? And now, all of a sudden, Bruce is dead and, hey, you’re fine! The prodigal son returns, but only when the father is taking a dirt nap six feet under, right?” 

“I don’t know!” Jason returns when Dick pauses for breath. “What do you want me to say? I was messed up, okay? I am messed up, and I spent a whole lot of years blaming Bruce for that sick clown’s existence and my own awful self, when it wasn’t his fault. And now he’s gone, and I don’t know what the fuck to do. I…I don’t know.” The younger man stutters to a halt. 

“I didn’t expect it to hurt so much,” Jason whispered. “When—when they told me, I went out and I came back bloody, and I don’t remember a damn thing. And then Alfred called, and I thought maybe there might be someone out there hurting like I hurt, and I just…came here. It’s not like I expect you to forgive me, or anything, I’m still messed up. But I thought maybe we could…be messed up together.”

Jason seems to deflate as he finishes speaking, glaring at Dick with a horrible mixture of hope and grief and pride in his eyes.

“You hurt me. You stole my brother from me,” Dick accuses quietly. 

“Tim recovered, he’s fine,” Jason protests.

“I wasn’t talking about Tim. Last time I checked I had three brothers. And only two of them are currently living in this house.”

“Oh.” The word whooshes out like Jason has just been on the receiving end of a quick, hard jab to the stomach. He can’t seem to catch his breath.

“I just…I want my brother back.” Dick looks at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but the confusion and shame on Jason’s face. “I’ve lost too many. My parents and—“ his voice breaks, “and Bruce. And I just need you to give him back to me. Can you do that?”

It’s Jason’s turn to avoid eye contact now.

“I don’t know if he still exists.” 

Jason’s voice is broken and barely audible, and it makes Dick unbearably sad.

The heat of their anger has driven them closer together, and Dick reaches out and clutches a fistful of Jason’s shirt, not at the neck, but at his side. 

“I do. I see him sometimes, and I wish you’d let him come home.” 

Jason remains silent, but slowly, hesitantly, he raises his left hand to tangle in the sleeve of Dick’s shirt at his shoulder. He stands there, frozen, for a moment with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, like he’s afraid any show of affection will be met with violence. When no blow befalls him, his face eases slightly, though his eyes remain closed. The tension drains from his body and he slumps, the fight gone out of him, leaning ever so subtly towards Dick.

Dick is versed enough in the nonverbal cues of tight-lipped brothers to recognize a truce when he sees one. 

He steps forward, careful to preserve the tentative link of Jason’s grip on his shirt, so that he stands bare inches from his brother. It is not precisely a hug. Neither lifts their arms, but Dick’s chin digs into his brother’s collarbone, while Jason’s sits almost comfortably on his shoulder.   
They stay that way for the length of several heartbeats. Then Jason lets his chin drag down over Dick’s shoulder, forehead coming to rest in the curve of his elder brother’s neck. His respiration is a warm, unsteady ebb and flow against Dick’s chest.

“Okay,” he breathes.


	2. Guardian

Tim doesn’t know quite how it happened, but somehow Jason Todd has moved into the room across the hall from his. There was no great proclamation, no killing of the fatted calf. One day he simply rolled out of bed and when he opened the door Jason was picking the lock to his old bedroom, duffel slung over his shoulder. Dick didn’t seem surprised, and the demon child isn’t fazed by much, but Tim was…bemused. There is a resident in the long-empty room across the hall, where he never thought there’d be one again. He doesn’t quite know how he feels about it.

There are a lot of things Tim doesn’t know these days. 

The first week was rocky, to say the least. Damian was twice his usual sadistic self, and the amount of sharp projectiles usually aimed at Tim’s head was now leveled at Jason’s. That, at least, Tim can get behind. The respite from ducking flying forks at dinner was a welcome one. 

Jason, though, seemed well equipped to handle the little monster’s temper tantrums. Yesterday he intercepted one of the hazardous missiles and sent it spinning back at its owner with such force that it stuck, quivering, in the wall—the original perpetrator having ducked with a yelp. 

Dick skirts around Jason with a wary combination of joyous disbelief and watchfulness. Tim has noticed how Jason carefully submits to each embrace Dick is brave enough to give him. Submits, but does not return. But still, this is progress for the once half-feral young man. It seems that he is both afraid to reciprocate the affection and afraid to reject it, like Dick will realize he’s made a mistake inviting the wayward brother home. 

Tim appreciates Jason’s effort on Dick’s behalf, but that doesn’t mean he trusts him. 

For the first few years of Tim’s foray as Robin, Jason Todd was equal parts legend and ghost. He was the standard against which Tim was judged and the warning unvoiced. 

He was a hero, and Tim wanted nothing more than to become him—minus the bloody end, of course. 

And then, miraculously, Jason lived, and Tim’s idolized image of the child martyr came crashing down around his ears. Tim saw the mingled horror and joy of the former Robin’s new existence in his mentor and eldest brother’s eyes. Yes, Jason was everything he’d imagined—smart, ruthless, fast, and strong—but he carried a darkness that threatened to swallow himself and anyone who dared get close enough to touch. 

Tim had dared, and he’d nearly died for his stupidity. 

So Tim keeps his distance now. He avoids eye contact, slips unobtrusively from the room when his predecessor enters. He rises early and is gone from the kitchen by the time the rest of his “family” stumbles down stairs. He pulls long hours in Bruce’s study, in the cave, because that door across the hall bothers him in a way that little else does. 

He is content with their separate coexistence. 

Until today, that is.

The cave always holds a slight chill, and Tim’s socks offer little barrier from the cold stone. He hooks his ankles around the legs of the stool he is perched on, and tugs the neck of his red sweatshirt higher. He is grateful for the quiet his brothers’ absence provides, as it is more conducive to the delicate work he has in mind today. The razor wire he is adapting for League use is so thin as to be nearly invisible, and he already has a handful of little nicks scattered across his hands. But gloves make his fingers bulky and clumsy, and he can handle a little sting in the name of genius. 

Dick is attending to some or the other form of legal business with the company, and had left the manor earlier with the air of someone about to attend their own hanging. Jason is somewhere upstairs avoiding Alfred’s constant attempts to shove more nutritious food down his throat—and also probably dodging the numerous college brochures the kindly butler keeps slipping under his door. Damian is likely sealed in his room with his assorted animal friends, no doubt plotting some wickedness against his housemates or the world at large.   
Tim is alone with his project. Peace is a welcome companion.

He is weaving the wire into the beginnings of a net when the first bang sounds. 

A bright flash and billows of smoke accompany the near-deafening sound. In the confusion, Tim unconsciously clenches his hands into fists.

He can’t help but cry out as the wire slashes his hands to a myriad of ribbons of blood.

Second and third smoke bombs follow the first, leaving Tim disoriented. Only the knowledge that they are Bat-made diversions allows Tim to remain in his workstation this long, endeavoring to protect his bloodstained work. Before he can dive off the stool and attempt to crawl to safety, the current Robin’s bird-a-rang flashes out of the haze, catching Tim across the temple and sending him sprawling on the cold concrete, head cracking sharply against the hard surface. 

There is the thunder of footsteps down the stone stairs and the whir of a fan switched on. 

Tim opens his eyes to find Damian dangling two feet off the ground, courtesy of Jason Todd.

“Todd! Release me at—“

“Shut. Up.” Jason’s nostrils flare dangerously, and even Damian doesn’t defy him. He strides towards Tim’s ruined workplace, snags the abandoned seat, and drags it into the corner. He deposits Damian roughly, positioning him facing the cave wall. 

“You little shit,” he says furiously, “I don’t care what issues you have with the Replacement, or Dickiebird, or anyone else in this damn house, you don’t get to hurt them just because you feel like it!” His voice had risen steadily, until he is shouting at the cowlick at the crown of Damian’s head. 

“I didn’t mean—“ the child protests, attempting to twist around. 

Jason stills him, with an uncompromising hand to the back of his neck. 

“Oh no, you don’t. You just put Red Robin out of commission for three weeks minimum, and if I have anything to say about it, you’re going to spend the whole of that time boring holes through this wall with your eyes alone,” Jason hissed. “You will not move until either Dick comes to your rescue or the Second Coming rolls around, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” is the tiny, stony answer.

Satisfied Damian has been properly intimidated, Jason paces back to where Tim is now sitting up dazedly.

“C’mere, Replacement,” Jason mutters gruffly.

Tim has little warning before he is plucked unceremoniously off the stone and swung with surprising ease into an unfamiliar pair of arms. 

“I—“ he objects, one hand dabbing curiously at the sticky wetness that threatens to drip into his right eye. 

“Ah, ah,” Jason remonstrates, plopping Tim onto one of the beds in the med bay, and restraining the exploring fingers with a firm hand.

The fingertips of one hand just brushing Tim’s chest, Jason rummages in the pristine cabinets with the other for the first aid kit. He comes away triumphant, and begins pulling various bits of gauze and tape out of the box, generally making a mess of Alfred’s careful organization. 

“Let’s do your head first, huh? It’s harder,” he murmurs, and applies an iodine-drenched cotton ball to the area with unexpected gentleness. It still stings, though, and Tim jerks, nearly knocking his head on Jason’s collarbone.

“Whoa, there, Baby Bird. Relax. If I’m fixing you, I’m not likely to murder you, now, am I?” Jason places a steadying hand on his shoulder and continues with his work.

Tim is still stiff, but he allows the older man’s soft touch to ease the bite of his cuts. He closes his eyes, suddenly unbelievably tired. 

“Why?” It’s all he has the energy to ask.

He feels rather than sees Jason’s shrug. 

“Big brother would be upset if he returned to find either of his precious birdies damaged. Might kick the big bad wolf back out on the streets where he belongs.” The tone is light, but there’s a dry bitterness to the words that belies the speaker’s flippancy. 

Tim frowns. “He wouldn’t. Dick…you matter to him.”

Jason glances up, meets Tim’s eyes with disconcerting frankness.

“So do you. You’re an idiot if you can’t see that. And for some godforsaken reason,” Jason pitches his voice to be heard by the corner’s occupant, “he cares about that little monstrosity, although I can’t fathom why.” 

“Tt.” 

Tim has the inappropriate urge to laugh. Instead, he slumps further into Jason’s hold, the elder having finished with his head and moved on to his tattered hands.

Jason whistles. “Damn, Replacement, you don’t do things halfway.” Tim’s hands feel small, cradled as they are within Jason’s larger ones. 

“Razor wire requires delicate handling. I wasn’t expecting…disturbances.”

Jason hums in sympathy. “This is going to hurt. A lot.”

The bottle is tipped, and Tim lets out half a moan before he stifles any sound in Jason’s t-shirt. His breath comes hot and fast against Jason’s shoulder.

“Okay,” he pants when he realizes the older boy has been saying his name multiple times, “I’m okay.” 

“I don’t think many of them need stitches, just a couple,” Jason traces the air over a deep slash in the meat of his thumb. Tim resigns himself to the sharp ache of a needle through skin without the numbing effect of anesthesia. Because using the anesthetic will attract Alfred’s attention, Dick’s questions, and certain punishment for all parties involved. Not that Tim’s mummified hands won’t draw inquiries, but bandages hide a lot. 

Several minutes later, the sutures are in place—not pretty, but functional—and Tim’s body is so wilted against Jason they might as well be a single person. 

Jason supports the younger boy with one arm while he shoves the medical supplies back into their case and tosses the kit into its cabinet haphazardly.

“Alright, kid, nap time,” he announces. 

Tim lifts his head groggily, blue eyes hazy with pain. “I don’t need—“

“Upstairs or down here. Those are your only options, slim,” Jason interrupts.

The younger boy frowns, the consideration of mutiny flits across his face, and then gives in. 

“Here. Alfie will see.”

“Right-o, then.” Jason scowls at the bed Tim is currently sitting on. “There’s blood everywhere. We’re relocating.” 

Before Tim can protest, he’s scooped up and deposited on the next cot over. Jason pushes him down against the pillow with one hand, and Tim draws his bulkily bandaged hands to his chest and complies. 

“Damian is still in the corner,” he comments sleepily.

“Oh, I know,” Jason replies. He turns his gaze to the drooping figure. “Damian, you may move your exile to the other bed. You may not speak, other than to apologize to Tim or myself, and if you do anything besides lay there or sleep I will make Dick hug you for extended periods of time. Understand?”

“Yes,” comes the significantly subdued voice of the youngest. There’s a soft rustle as Damian lies on the third bed, still facing the wall. “I…regret the damage to your hands, Drake. It will make patrol…difficult.”

Tim coughs in astonished acknowledgement. Jason grins wolfishly.

“Good. Now both of you go to sleep.” With that, Jason tugs the sheet up to cover Tim and settles beside him on the bed. “Scoot, Replacement, I’m not sleeping on your blood, either. If either of you moves before Dick gets home, I’m using the gas to knock you out.”

Dick finds them two hours later. Damian has flopped onto his stomach, now facing the opposite bed. Tim is curled around Jason’s hip, injured hands still tucked to his heart, forehead nudged into the older boy’s side. 

Jason merely opens a single eye, gives Dick a look that clearly says shut the hell up, and slides it closed again. His arm is hooked around Tim’s neck—in affection—his hand buried in Tim’s soft hair.

Dick doesn’t think he’s ever smiled so hard.


	3. Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We were a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another's desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together."  
> ― Erma Bombeck

“Phones.”

The voice is Dick’s, but the commanding, no-opposition-tolerated tone is drastically different than his usual friendly cheer. Because it is not Dick Grayson, brother, speaking, but rather Officer Grayson of Bludhaven PD—even though Dick hasn’t worn that mantle for well over three months now.

Jason winces and bristles out of long ingrained habit, because he and cops have a varied, unpleasant history that didn’t end the day he attempted to steal the tires off the ride of Gotham’s protector.

Dick hasn’t stopped glaring, so he huffs a sigh and drops his phone into the box held out to him. Jason’s submission gained, Dick moves to loom over each of his brothers in turn. Tim tosses his cell into the mix without complaint, but must be ordered, then cajoled, into giving up his mini-tablet, which is concealed in the waistband of his jeans. Damian’s phone has already been confiscated as punishment for coercing a muddy Titus to nap—and drool—in Tim’s bed last week, but Dick yanks the headphones loose from his youngest brother’s ears and plucks the iPod from its hiding place in the boy’s hood. 

All technology thus gathered, to various complaints, pleas, and threats of disembowelment, Dick lets out a satisfied sigh and delivers said box into the capable hands and steely, eagle-eyed gaze of Alfred.

Jason scowls, Tim drops his head resignedly onto folded arms, and Damian glowers and swings his legs viciously back and forth, hoping to connect with his eldest brother’s shin. 

They are seated around the dining room table, and this fresh hell on earth is what Dick has taken to calling family dinner. 

This recently established new order—or, as Jason prefers to call it, Dick-tatorship—has been in place for only three weeks now, and the reception it garners is no more pleasant than the first time. 

Jason only scowls harder at the tyrant’s smug suggestion that he shouldn’t mess up his pretty face like that, and kicks himself internally. After all, this new brand of torture is partly his own fault. 

No, he takes that back. This rests entirely on Dick. Down with the bloody despot. 

Yes, he agreed that the youngest members of this patchwork family were slipping further into their own misery and solitude. Yes, he agreed they needed to do something together outside of their shared nightlife. He’d been imagining ‘Wayne Boys go to Fight Night’ or something similar. At least watching other grown men beat on each other would have been interesting, maybe even fun—although, he admitted, some of the semi-illegal moves might have found their way into the manor, resulting in broken vases, furniture, and brothers. 

He’d never thought Dick would dream up this monstrosity—an hour of interruption (technology) free Sunday dinner, during which the reluctant members would talk about the events of their week, followed by mandatory movie night in the den. Choice of movie was supposed to rotate through the participants, but so far the younger three had been able to pick films of particularly gory plot to make up for the hideous and unabashed sibling bonding they’d been forced into. 

He should’ve seen it coming. When it comes to bringing unwilling brothers back into the family fold, Dick is a diabolical genius, and quite frankly, Jason is terrified of him.

When he tunes back in to real time, he finds that Alfred has already laid out their supper—steak, in light of Jason’s carnivorous proclivities, peas, because the little demon only has a soft heart for animals, and scalloped potatoes, as Dick has this weird thing where he hates the consistency of mashed potatoes. The meal is completed by a glass of chocolate milk, because Tim’s bones are bird-light and too breakable, and because Alfred—along with the rest of them—is inclined to indulge the neglected child Tim once was. 

Damian insists he is too old for childish things like chocolate milk and requests a glass of wine instead. No is the resounding answer from all sides. 

Dinner conversation is stilted, with Dick carrying most of the weight. 

Tim and Damian sit on the same side of the table without killing each other for once. This new development is a direct result of the recently implemented, and highly protested, rules. Dick, in all his self-righteousness, has not only visited this horror of family night upon them, but also decreed that all vigilantes under the age of eighteen are forbidden from patrol on three out of five school nights and are to be in bed at eleven ‘o’clock on the dot, bar the end of the world or some other disaster.

The younger two, of course, have launched a full-scale attack against the new regime, and, combined, are a formidable, albeit pint-sized, force to be reckoned with. Jason wonders if Dick only keeps this rule in place to preserve the temporary peace between the two. 

In any case, Jason stays firmly planted in Switzerland. The crossfire may be the death of him.

If looks could kill, Dick would have used up his nine lives many times over. Damian, who is eating his peas with unnecessary violence, seems to be attempting to burn a hold through his brother’s head with his eyes alone, and Jason gives thanks once more that none of them were born with more than human abilities. He doesn’t think the world would still be standing otherwise. 

Tim keeps his glare centered on his plate, as he, like Jason, has learned that it is wiser to avoid eye contact with Dick. Dick glances up from his precious potatoes, finds Damian’s eyes on him, and smiles with the warmth of a thousand suns, like he can’t see that the demon spawn wants to murder him.

“So,” Dick begins, “Dami, high and low of your week, go.”

Damian resists as long as is safe, before Dick decides to condemn him to the drinking of chocolate milk with every meal, then answers with a calmness that immediately puts Jason on edge.

“Well, I suppose the low of this unimportant week was when Mrs. Schulte forced our class to view an asinine film about talking vehicles. It was most idiotic, and I told her so.” 

Tim chokes on his milk and Damian continues, undisturbed, “It was either that or this horrid abomination that you so seem to enjoy, Grayson,” he concludes, waving around the table with his fork, somehow managing to make the gesture threatening. 

Dick’s smile is considerably dimmer, but he perseveres. “I see. And the high? Surely you liked something,” he encourages.

“Oh, yes. The peak of my week has not yet occurred.” 

“What’s that?” 

There is a militant light in Damian’s eyes that prickles the hair at the back of Jason’s neck, but Dick only beams hopefully. 

“The event I will most enjoy this week is when I sever your head from your body using only my hands,” the child hisses, stabbing his fork through the linen tablecloth and into the polished wood.

Alfred appears as if by magic and plucks the offending utensil from its owner’s hand with ease. 

“Please, Master Damian, there will be no destruction of the furniture. We were not raised by wolves,” the butler intones decisively, replacing the instrument with a much less dangerous plastic version and vanishing again. 

Jason is tempted to argue that some of them were.

There is obviously going to be no more out of Damian, who is staring at his new non-deadly fork with a half-bewildered, half-enraged expression. The boy’s face is comical, but Jason coughs instead of laughing because he does not want to receive a plasticized piece of silverware to the eye. Dick flits his gaze to Tim, and the teen heaves a put upon sigh.

“I phrmmoof,” the boy mumbles into his food.

“What?” Dick queries.

“I said I failed my Advanced Psych test,” he spits sullenly.

“What?” both Dick and Jason blurt, uncomprehending. Because there is no way that the complexities of any high school course, no matter how advanced, have defeated the genius of Timothy Drake Wayne. 

Tim shrugs. “I found the premise of the professor’s conclusion to be incorrect, based on the fact that he blatantly ignored critical information on the subject’s personal traumas and relationship analysis between the subject and his mother,” the teen snorts derisively. “He thinks the answer to every psychological problem may be found within Freud’s Oedipus theory.”

Tim glances up to find them staring. “He was wrong, I corrected him, and he decided to be spiteful.”

And to Tim, it is that simple. There will be no pretending, no deliberate smothering of his intelligence in order to abide by the rules of others. Jason supposes Dick will be paying the headmaster of Gotham Academy a visit in his rapidly diminishing spare time.

It seems Dick has also reached this conclusion. He sighs wearily. “Dare I ask the high point of your week?”

The glare is back. “Only helping Damian destroy you,” Tim states casually. 

The conversation flounders for a moment after that, and Damian and Tim give each other a devious, satisfied look at having finally exhausted Dick’s endless patience. Dick, however, turns those pleading blue eyes on the last brother.

Jason has a brief and silent internal struggle, and then takes a bite of his steak resignedly. He opens his mouth to speak and prepares to take a stand beside his eldest brother on the field of battle. 

 

Dinner is completed and movie night commences without fratricide and with little mayhem. Tim and Damian both give Jason silent, wounded looks with big eyes that make him feel as if he is lower than the scum on their shoes. But Dick’s face lights up brilliantly and his grin is so wide that Jason feels perhaps he has done the right thing for once. 

Unfortunately, it is Dick’s turn to pick the movie, which means that they end up watching both The Lion King and Secondhand Lions, films that Dick deems appropriate for Damian’s youth. 

Also, since one of the films features only animals, Damian is less likely to annihilate the plot with derisive comments. 

Tim is quieter about his anger, and only sits stonily on the big sofa—where he and Damian have retreated to lick their wounds and glare balefully at traitorous older brothers. Dick and Jason have each chosen one of the recliners, well out of reach of any retribution the younger two may be planning.

The room is dark, the well worn couch comfortable and familiar, and Damian, belly full, is nodding heavily by Simba’s return. By the time the McCann brothers are shanghaied into the French Legion, he is conked out, stretched out on his stomach, head pillowed on a hand and toes just brushing Tim’s leg. Jason looks over a few minutes later to find that Tim, exhausted with the effort of holding a grudge, has also drifted off, curled in the sofa’s corner so as not to disrupt Damian. 

Jason and Dick finish the movie in glorious silence.

As the credits roll, Jason flicks off the TV with the remote and turns to find Dick observing their still sleeping siblings.   
Dick lets a hand hover over Damian’s flushed cheek, but doesn’t wake him yet.

“I appreciate it, you know,” he says quietly, “You picking a side.”

Jason huffs. “You’d better, my life’s on the line.” He pauses. “You do realize they’re probably going to kill us, right? Alfred will hush the whole thing up and stuff our bodies up the chimney. At least Santa won’t be able to visit the little brats. Serve them right.”

Dick grins wryly. Jason rubs a hand over the back of his neck and continues.

“Look, man, I thought you could use some help. Bat-Baby and the Pretender are pretty frightening when they want to be.”

“It’s good to see them working as a team, even if I am in constant fear for my life—or at least my hair.” Dick drags a hand over his head, ruefully massaging the recently shortened spot at the back where one or the other of the terrors had taken a pair of scissors to a large chunk of the black locks while he slept.

He sobers a moment later, eyes still on Damian’s peaceful face. 

“I only want what’s best for them, for them to have something normal. Even if that something is watching kiddie movies and going to be at a reasonable hour three nights a week. Even if it makes them hate me. It’s just…I wish they wouldn’t.”

Dick’s shoulders slump, just a little, as his hand finally finds its place, resting softly on Damian’s head.

“They don’t, Dick. In fact, I’d wager the opposite is true. But neither of them are used to being treated like the children they still are.” 

Dick blinks. “Insightful,” he murmurs. “And you, Jason? You’re hardly past childhood yourself.”

Jason smiles, a tiny thing, and his eyes are older than they should be. “I haven’t been a child for a very long time, brother.”

Creases deepen around Dick’s eyes and mouth. “That’s incredibly sad, Jay.”

“Maybe. The truth isn’t always pretty,” Jason shrugs. “I figure, if you can give them even a little bit of what I lost…well, I’m behind you. All the way. He would want that.”

Dick’s laugh is no more than a humorless puff of air. “He was the one who exposed them to things no child should ever have to see. But then, his actions didn’t always correspond with his desires. He never could say what he meant, so he protected their bodies and neglected their souls.”

“There are two of us now,” Jason comments. “I daresay we’re good enough to cover both. But I’m not being held responsible for anyone’s soul, or whatever the hell it is. I’m not good with words, Dick, not when they matter.”

“Good enough.” Dick says simply. “But I’ve got more than enough words for both of us. Guard their bodies, and I’ll try to keep their souls whole. And I hope to God that derelict school can pull together enough to cultivate their ridiculously precocious minds. Parent-teacher conferences may be the death of me.”

Jason grins. “Complaining about your brothers’ genius, Grayson, you ungrateful wretch.” 

Dick rolls his eyes theatrically. “I do suffer so,” he bemoans. He skims his gaze across their slumbering brethren, Damian’s hunched position and the way Tim’s neck is tilted uncomfortably back. “They’re going to get cricks sleeping like that, you know.” 

So saying, he slides his hands under Damian’s arms and tows him up, propping the small limp body against one shoulder. 

Jason sighs. “Sure, take the smallest one.” But he moves to the sofa and lays a hand on Tim’s side. “Hey, Replacement.” No response. He rubs gently. “C’mon, Timmy.”

Tim turns his face into the pillow sleepily. “Mmph, Di—“ he opens his eyes, “Oh, Jason. What—“

“We’re moving the party upstairs, kid. C’mon, up you go.” He hauls the teen upright, the boy swaying dangerously. Tim reaches out frantically and snags the hem of Jason’s shirt in one fist. Jason places a supporting hand under the boy’s elbow and guides him deliberately towards the stairs. “Alright, we’ll take it slow.”

Dick leads the small, exhausted procession, Damian just stirring in his arms. Jason watches as the youngest wakes enough to draw his arms around his brother’s neck and push his face into Dick’s shoulder. Jason follows, one arm supporting Tim. Tim’s eyes are still nearly closed, and he stumbles on with only Jason’s touch to guide him, his hand still tangled in his brother’s shirt.

Halfway up the stairs, Jason hears the groggy murmur of Damian’s voice. 

“Grayson?”

“Yeah, Dami, we’re just going up to bed, okay?” Dick hums.

“Did Walter’s mother ever come back for him?” the voice queries.

Jason sees the way Dick’s foot nearly misses the next step, hears how his breath hitches just the slightest bit.

“No, buddy,” he lies into the soft hair. “Walter gets to stay with his uncles. Don’t you think he’d be happier that way?”

“Mmhmm,” Damian rubs his face in the crook of Dick’s neck. “But why doesn’t she want him?” The question is nearly inaudible.

The rest of Dick’s breath leaves him in a whoosh. “I don’t know, baby, I don’t know.”

“Sad,” is the barely intelligible response.

“I know. But Walter has other people who love him, so much.” Jason watches Dick press a kiss to the boy’s temple as the child slides back into sleep. Dick’s glance back at him as he reaches the top of the steps is devastated.

Jason only nods in weary acknowledgement, and steers his heavy-eyed charge into his room, while Dick disappears into Damian’s.

Tim is easily maneuvered into bed, and relinquishes his hold on Jason’s clothing only when the covers are drawn up around him. Jason runs a hand over the teen’s hair, calming at the soft sigh as the boy tumbles into unconsciousness. 

He slips back into the hallway, leaving Tim’s door cracked the slightest bit, just as Dick is exiting Damian’s room. 

His eldest brother straightens before meeting his gaze, eyes glassy but resolute. The message is clear. They need us now.   
Dick nods and, without another word, goes into his bedroom and shuts the door. 

Jason never hears the lock snick into place. 

He is left standing in the middle of the triangle his brothers’ rooms make, and, with the burden of their safety weighing heavy on his soul, he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven’t seen Secondhand Lions, Walter’s mother leaves him with two uncles while she travels. She actually does come back for him—after an extended vacation and another husband—and coerces Walter into departing with her. Walter, a few miles down the road, escapes her and makes his way back to his beloved uncles to stay. Obviously, this reminds Damian of Talia, hence everyone’s reactions. Thank you for reading!


	4. Unsteady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s sorry Grayson will have to see and touch and carry his broken body.

The first nine years of his life being as they were, Damian did not regard death as most did. The Reaper was not a great, lurking, sinister villain, waiting to snatch him away from those he lov— _tolerated_ when he wasn’t expecting it. No, to Damian death was simply an inevitability—perhaps not a convenient one, but fate was rarely concerned with things like willingness and acceptance.

So when he dives, swinging under the spray of bullets only to have one of the deadly projectiles clip his line by pure, unlucky chance, he doesn’t scream. He is the son of the Bat, a warrior in his own right, and he won’t have his memory besmirched by any weakness in the moments before his death.

And then he’s falling, desperate and heavy, hands scrabbling for a utility belt he knows is lying broken and useless on the rooftop he is no longer occupying. There will be no daring rescue, no last minute snag of his cape, because last he knew Red Hood and Red Robin were occupied across town, and Batman was lying nearly unconscious under the Black Mask’s obscenely expensive shoe.

And maybe he understands just the tiniest bit why Jason was half out of his mind with rage and pain all those years, because he is dying and no one is coming, and that—even if it’s his own fault—is a whole new hurt in and of itself.

He’s not afraid—a rooftop dive gone wrong is a much less painful and drawn out end than he’d resigned himself to—but he is sorry. He’s sorry that his legacy will fall to some faceless, nameless criminal. He’s sorry that he wasn’t smart or fast or strong enough to avoid such a common end. He’s sorry that retribution will not be distributed for the wrong done him.

He’s sorry Grayson will have to see and touch and carry his broken body.

He’s even sorry he hasn’t seen Drake and Todd tonight—if only because he lives to torment them. After all, if he has the time—ten stories—he might as well be honest with himself.

He’s used up most of his time now, and he closes his eyes, as he’d rather not see the moment of impact—he allows himself that small weakness.

The next second is met not by unforgiving asphalt as he expects, but rather the jarring, painful, _welcome_ collision of a larger, harder body with his own.

And then Grayson—because _of course of course_ it is Grayson—has one steel-banded arm wrapped tight around him, and they are swinging, not falling.

“I’ve got you,” the man murmurs into his hair, voice steady and firm. But Grayson’s breath is faster than it should be, and his hand trembles just the slightest bit where it is pressed to Damian’s ribs.

Damian has seen enough in his short years to know what fear looks like. And maybe, just maybe, the physical signs of Grayson’s fear make the way Damian’s quaking arms creep up around his brother’s neck a little bit okay.

The night is silent, free of gunfire, by the time they land stumblingly, near a dilapidated apartment complex. Damian doesn’t question where their adversaries have disappeared to or how, because if there’s one thing he has learned, it’s that Grayson is the next thing to God, or at least to Father, and is capable of unexplainable miracles.

Grayson has steadied during their brief flight, but his instability seems to somehow have transferred into Damian. He has no earthly idea why he should be afraid now, but the cold of it seeps into his bones, and he shakes, practically vibrating, held in Grayson’s arms.

His brother only hitches him higher, both arms circling him now with a ferocity that threatens to knock the breath right out of him.

There are words, which he can’t seem to grasp, spilled against his temple, and the small still-functioning part of his brain registers a dull, muffled answer from Grayson’s comm unit.

His brother starts walking in a seemingly random direction, not loosening his grip for an instant, and they don’t stop until the Batmobile finds them.

Tim is at the wheel—and who the hell is responsible for _that_ , he wonders—and Jason sits in the back, ankle propped on the console between the front seats. The car is barely built to fit the four of them, and Jason makes grabby hands—well, technically one hand, because the other is bloody and cradled to his chest—for Damian as Dick attempts to squeeze them through the door. Damian feels the stubborn shake of Dick’s head against his, and Jason subsides, slumping wearily into the corner to give them more room.

Drake, for probably the first time in his life, breaks the speed limit—and maybe the space-time continuum—to get them home in record time.

Then the car is parked, carefully, of course, in its proper spot, and Damian is soothed by the familiar precision of Alfred’s voice as they all stagger out of the tight space, Damian’s feet never touching the ground and Tim supporting Jason as he limps.

“My, we have had an eventful night, haven’t we, sirs.” Alfred’s voice is close, and Damian feels a warm hand touch briefly to his back. The insignificant touch forces a strange hiccup-y sob out of him, and he burrows further into Grayson’s heat.

“Okay, Dami,” Grayson croons, walking them over to the med bay, where Todd and Drake have disappeared to.

“You two alright?” He can feel the rumble of Dick’s deep voice in his chest as he speaks to their siblings.

“Yeah,” Jason replies, then hisses. “You could be a little gentle, Replacement, damn,” he snaps.

“And you could stop deliberately throwing yourself into situations without an exit strategy. I knew you were reckless, Jason, but I didn’t think you were stupid as well,” Tim shoots back crossly.

Jason huffs in the way that means he’s either annoyed or he can’t think of a good comeback.

“If no one’s dying,” Dick intercedes dryly, “I’m taking Dami up. You guys should follow shortly.” He pauses thickly. “We can all use some rest tonight.”

A snort and a grunt answer him, but they are noises of agreement.

Then they are moving again, and Damian is lulled by the easy rocking motion of Dick’s body as they ascend the stairs.

In Damian’s room, Dick makes to set him down on the bed. A strangled sound—it is not a whimper, it is _not_ —emits from his throat and he scrambles to stay attached to his brother, arms like a vise around his neck.

Dick’s hand rubs soothingly up and down his back, and he shushes him gently. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. We’re just gonna get you in some pajamas, okay? Not letting go, I promise.”

Damian’s grip loosens just enough for Dick to slip free, and he rummages in a drawer with one hand, keeping the other pressed to Damian’s chest. He emerges victorious with Damian’s winter set of nightwear clutched in his fist. Damian wants to tell him that’s the wrong pair, because it’s _June_ , but his teeth clack together with the violence of his shivers and his hands are numb with cold.

Dick seems to understand this, and he quickly and efficiently divests him of the uniform and wraps him in warm flannel.

There is a panicky moment when Grayson’s touch leaves him altogether, but the man only strips off the top half of his own suit, tossing it on the floor, and pulls on a large _Bludhaven Police Department_ sweatshirt he finds lying across the back of the desk chair. Damian barely has time to miss the contact before Dick is scooting him bodily over and climbing under the covers, next to him.

Dick curls Damian onto his side and pulls him close, chin settling on top of his head and arms banding around his back. Damian wants to argue that he is not a child, that he doesn’t need Grayson’s ridiculous method of comforting, that he’s fine.

But that is so obviously untrue that he would hurt his brother’s tender feelings, and he’s not unnecessarily cruel, at least not with Dick.

So he allows himself the luxury of being held by the first person in the entire world to love him, and if the tears come hot and fast and silent, well, there is no proof but the wet splotches on Grayson’s sweatshirt.

In the temporary privacy of their own little world, Damian cries like the child he still is and listens to Dick’s breath hitch against his hair.

“I didn’t—‘m sorry—“ he chokes, unsure of what he is even trying to say.

But Dick only clutches him tighter, one large hand cradling the back of his head while the other draws broad strokes on his back.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. “It’s okay to be scared sometimes, Dami. It doesn’t mean you’re weak, or unworthy. It means you’re human.”

“But I m-messed up,” Damian manages to stutter through the chattering of his teeth and the infernal tears.

“Yeah, you did.” His heart sinks dreadfully. But, yes, he is at fault. He shouldn’t have thought Batman would forget that little detail just because his protégé brushed fingertips with Death.

Dick pushes back suddenly, and Damian despises the way his throat constricts and his hands reach frantically for that comfort.

“No, listen to me, Damian,” Dick takes his chin firmly in one hand, forcing him to meet clear blue eyes.

“You messed up, look at me, because you dove through a hail of _bullets_ trying to save me. And I never, _ever_ want you to do that again.”  
He pauses, closes his eyes as if in pain and blinks them open again.

“That was so colossally _stupid_ , you little idiot. God, it was so close, I almost lost you,” he continues in a hoarse whisper. “Do you understand that? I could have lost you, and I never would have forgiven myself.”

Damian goes numb when Dick closes his eyes and rests their foreheads together. He blinks stupidly, trying to make sense of the fact that he doesn’t seem to be in deep shit.

“So you’re…not mad?” he asks hesitantly.

Dick laughs—a choked, wobbly thing, but a laugh nonetheless. He plops a fleeting kiss on the tip of Damian’s nose and pulls the child back into their formerly entwined position before Damian can stop him.

“Oh I’m mad,” he explains, a smile in his voice, “but right now I’m just so damn happy you’re alive that I think you’ll get off with a week of no patrol.”

Damian opens his mouth to argue, thinks better of it, and closes it again. He harrumphs to save face.

“That’s what I thought. Now go to sleep. Thank God it’s summer or else they’d take you away from me on truancy charges alone.”

Damian swallows thickly and twines his hands into Dick’s shirt at the suggestion.

“I’ve got you,” Dick exhales, holding him impossibly tighter.

Through the slightly open door, there are the deliberate sounds of feet stomping up the stairs and the faint, accented reminder that “please, sirs, there is no need to act like a herd of elephants” following closely behind.

“Hear that, Replacement? You’re disturbing Alfie,” Jason’s voice snarls.

“Yes,” Tim snarks back, loudly, “Because I’m the one wearing twenty-pound combat boots.”

“Oh, well, let’s just wake up the whole damn house, why don’t we!”

“I don’t need to, you oaf! Your big elephant feet got the job done just fine!”

“You’re treading a thin line, Babybird, and I wouldn’t cross—“

There is a thump and the scuffle of running feet, the slam of a door.

Damian feels Dick smile against his temple while death threats are tossed through the thin barrier of Tim’s bedroom door.

Dick’s body has relaxed against him, but has not yet reached the boneless quality that means he has surrendered to dreams. Dick tucks him as close as two bodies can possibly be, and Damian sighs in response.

Under the layers of flannel pajamas and blankets, in the haven of his brother’s arms, Damian is finally, finally warm.

With the feel of Dick’s chest rising and falling against his own, and the sound of Tim and Jason shouting at each other down the hall, Damian drifts into a perfect, dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a series of one-shots set during Bruce's unwilling foray through time. I'm basically just giving myself an excuse to fix their relationships and make them cuddle, so some of this may be OOC, but I'll try to keep as close to character as I can.


End file.
